Some people care too much, I think it's called love
by giraffewithstripes
Summary: Dean normally knocks on Castiel's door, just to check on him, not that he answers. But Dean finally forces himself to open the door, because he has something that he needs to show him.


Dean rapped his knuckle on Castiel's door. His usual nightly check. Just in case. That was his usual routine, to ensure that the fallen angel hadn't taken off. He could really use the sleep, he needed the sleep, but no. He had to make sure that Castiel was okay. That fallen angel, had crawled away from Dean's reach, rooted his soul someplace dark, with a liquor bottle for solace, for release.

And what could Dean do about it?  
Nothing. Powerless, to his friend's destruction. He was not the angel's redemption.

All he could do was rap his knuckle on the door. And wait. Spit out curses to Metatron on Castiel's behalf. Wait some more, shifting on his feet.  
"Cas?"

Castiel would never answer. He was too stubborn for that. But if Dean pressed his ear to the door, he could hear the floorboards creak under the weight of the bed as Castiel tossed onto the other side.

Normally he could picture Castiel pulling the cover over his head, flipping over to the window; looking out to the stars with longing to be away from here. E.T was supposed to have gone home. This was killing him. It was killing them both.

But Dean would nod to himself, satisfied for that night. He'd rub his face in exhaustion, breathing in deeply with gratification. Castiel was fine for that night. Not good, no where near. But he'd hung on another night. Dean would swallow, looking back to the door, lips parted for just a moment. Hoping. Yes, if it'd been any other, Dean would have killed him for what he'd done.

But as Sam had once put it. This was Cas.

Dean would hesitate, turning on his heels slightly. He knows, that Castiel won't open the door. But he can't help himself. He wants to talk to Castiel. But he understands that Cas just isn't ready yet.

But tonight was different. It'd been the darn'dest of things. It'd set Dean's self control off the charts. He tapped the door timidly, awaiting the painful rejection that normally Dean could brush off. Heart on his sleeve would have been the right expression. His hand was sweaty as it clutched a threadbare hardback. Not an artifact. No relic to be deciphered, for Castiel to figure out. Dean wasn't even sure how the book had gotten there, he was sure that the men of letters wouldn't have had time for bedtime stories, and children's books. But somehow while Dean was trying to find a way of fixing this broken ship, this world that was crumbling over all the angels, of all things he'd found The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh.

And damn, if it didn't bring back memories. Fuzzy yes, but beautiful. Memories that tasted too sweet in his mouth, making his body heavy with nostalgia, weighing him down with it. He remembered her voice saying the words, by the light of the low lamp, her voice low and melodic, always making Dean sleepy despite his protests. But he'd always rumble for more, before his eyes would drift shut, far too heavy, his body fighting sleep. "Little warrior, aren't you Dean?" she would whisper, before she'd sing "Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better..." before applying a butterfly kiss on Dean's forehead, ruffling a hand through his hair.

Of all the stories he'd read to Sammy, stories of knights and kings, he'd never touched The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, with Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin in the Hundred Acre Wood. He'd never be good enough to have read it to Sam. He wouldn't do the voices right. It wouldn't be her.

Dean could never talk about her. And it didn't feel right telling Sam about that, about those precious moments he'd gotten with mom. But it was...he had to show it to someone. It was something that he just couldn't talk about with Sam. It was wrong. It was selfish. But Sam couldn't hear about Dean's sentimentality now, his weakness. The fact that he missed mom. Dean couldn't show it to him. Not when Sam needed him to support him.

He had to show the book to Cas. And he flinched, at his own voice as it croaked. "Cas...?"

He pressed his ear to the door frame with desperate zeal, trying to listen. Please Cas...he thought to himself, as if Castiel could still hear prayers.

He couldn't hear a pin drop in that room. He tried to hold it in but he couldn't. His fingers curled into a fist, ready to knock again. "Cas?" He squeaked.

His heart thumped in his chest, booming in his ears. He wanted to shut the thing up so he could listen. What if...?

Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself before wrenching the door open, bursting into the room. "CAS!" He yelled, his heart booming too loud as he skimmed the room, looking for the angel - fallen angel.

He frowned, perplexed as he saw Castiel crouched in the corner with the light on, with jigsaw pieces splayed across the floor. His liquor bottle sat by his side like a loyal bulldog. Castiel didn't seem to notice his entrance, his body bent over in concentration. Dean could see the bare skin of his lower back as his grungy shirt rode up as the dishevelled angel pondered over each piece, picking it up and weighing it in his hand before slotting it into place.

"Cas?" Dean asked warily, looking about the room, that looked so...bare. Too neat in contrast to Castiel, who knelt in a jumble of puzzle pieces, not seeing him. His stomach curled, unable to ask all the questions jammed up inside him. The book felt so heavy in his hand. A dead weight.  
Dean bit his lip, turning his head back to the open door.

He tiptoed over to Castiel without forethought, placing the book to a naked spot with trepidation. He recoiled as it kissed the floor, as if its touch scorched him. He flinched, as Castiel caught his hand. "What did you want?" He asked, his voice flat, eyes empty. Dean didn't know how to answer. "I was just checking up on you."

Castiel eyed him suspiciously. "Then what is that book that you have there?"  
Dean turned away trying to hide a blush. "Nothing Cas."  
Castiel pursed his lips, reaching for it with his hand, releasing Dean. Dean couldn't move. Castiel wasn't touching him, but as Cas stroked the spine with tenderness, as he examined it in his hand, it was as if his hands were crawling all over Dean. And it was painful.  
"Damn." Dean muttered, restraining himself to staring, trying not to pry the book out of Castiel's hands. He wanted to leave. He couldn't remember why he wanted Castiel to see it in the first place.

Castiel frowned, as his fingers stroked the rubbed title, looking at the yellowed front page. His lips curving upwards, showing his teeth, for the first time in a long time. His Cas smile. "A.A Milne." He said, shaking his head. "I remember when heaven sent the cupids to set up him and Dorothy de Selincourt, to ensure Christopher Robin Milne would be born."  
Dean's heart was pounding in his ears, as he watched Castiel talk, as if seeing him again for the first time. For a brief moment, he almost believed he had his angel back. "Why?" He finally breathed. "Why would heaven even care?"  
Castiel shrugged, his fingers grasping for the bottle, before moving it away slightly. "How do I know? Humans needed the hope, I guess, some good. And much good came out of A.A Milne's work."

Dean crouched next to him, looking over at Castiel's progress. "You're doing a jigsaw puzzle of a kitten?"  
"Yes." Castiel said frowning, glancing back and forth from the puzzle box to Dean as if he was an idiot. "Where'd you even get it?"  
"Kevin gave it to me."

So Kevin was paying even more attention to Castiel than he'd been. Even though, he didn't have the time, he still felt guilty. "How long have you been doing this?"  
"Don't know." Castiel muttered, looking away. "I don't keep track of time."  
"If you've been talking to Kevin why didn't you say anything to me?" Dean snapped. "I've been knocking on the door for days, Cas, worried about you."  
Castiel was silent, picking up another puzzle piece, the grey tints and slashes making up part of the kitten's paw. "I didn't talk to Kevin. He just handed it to me. He said something about stimulation...but I wasn't really listening."  
"Charming Cas." Dean said, slapping Castiel's shoulder. Castiel nodded, but it seemed that the moment of sharing had passed. Dean sighed, his eyes flickering to Castiel feeling that weight press in on him again, the need to tell Castiel everything but not being able to. Now just wasn't the right time to be telling stories.  
"What did you need?" Castiel asked, looking directly at Dean. "I was just going to show you the book." Dean mumbled. "My mom used to read it to me."  
Castiel frowned again, confused. "Did you want me to read to you the book Dean?"  
Dean could feel the heat boiling up in his cheeks. "No, I was just -"  
"Because I do have the whole book memorised," Castiel continued, giving Dean a small smile, flicking through a few of the yellowed pages. Dean couldn't find it in himself to stop Castiel. The poor dude looked so...happy for once.

"Pooh?" he whispered."  
Oh crap, Dean thought to himself with panic, as he heard Castiel's low voice say the words. He shifted awkwardly, forcing a smile. This felt too surreal.  
"Yes, Piglet?"  
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you." This quote is also a particular favourite of mine, "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

Dean swallowed, looking down unable to look at Castiel, the way his lips moved to form those beautiful words. The way his lips were curving into a smile, and it was nice. Except that Dean couldn't stay and listen anymore, because hearing those words hurt, watching Castiel hurt. He had to get back to Sam, he couldn't afford to sit hear and listen to Castiel read him Winnie the Pooh. But how he wanted to, knowing that this brief flicker of light would be snuffed out as soon as the book was shut. His ears were ringing and his brain was telling him to get back to Sam. But he was so tired. Dean's eyes were so heavy and they closed, just as they'd done when his mom had sang to him and read to him the same. Castiel didn't hum "Hey Jude" or stroke his hair, but he did murmur, "Some people care too much I think its called love." As Dean slumped over onto Castiel's shoulder. He twitched, as Castiel's stubble scratched against his cheek. Castiel breathed into his ear. "Good night Dean."

Dean woke up, several hours later on his own bed, eyes gritty, unable to tell what had been real, and what had been imagined. He couldn't bring himself to knock on Castiel's door again, too afraid to see what Castiel looked like with the light snuffed out. But the book lay by his desk all the same, a memory at which he was unsure whether to be sad about, or just grateful. Maybe sometimes, it can be both.


End file.
